


Vivisection

by LumosMinima



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape, Slavery, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-26 18:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LumosMinima/pseuds/LumosMinima
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU of books 6 & 7. The war is over with great losses to the side of light. Snape stands condemned of treason and murder and is sentenced to lifetime slavery. Harry doesn't know what to make of the new world he finds himself in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The white marble extended as far as the eye could see.   
  
Harry looked around, searching for something –- anything -- that would hint that this used to be the site of Hogwarts grounds.  
  
Nothing. The actual school was long gone, but that wasn't all. Everything -- the hills, the Forbidden Forest, Hogsmeade the lake had disappeared, was levelled and filled, then covered up with the white marble, enchanted with the strongest spells and charms possible.   
  
“Only thing they could do to contain the curse,” Harry’s companion said. Harry glanced at him, trying to recall his name. Reid, or something.   
  
It was disorienting at first to hardly know anyone in the Auror Department reconstituted after the war, but Harry was managing. Sort of. As soon as they released him from St. Mungo, he began memorizing the names of the new people in the Ministry, the Auror office. A week later, he started visiting the places that used to be familiar. The only place he still recognized in Diagon Alley was Gringotts. Everything else was different. Then again, it’s been three years -- a long time to spend in a coma.   
  
Harry stood perfectly still, watching the way the clouds cast shadows on the pure white marble. He was almost certain he could feel the tremors under his feet, as if fire was ready to burst forth and consume its makeshift tomb.   
  
There were no tremors of course. More to the point, there was no fire under the marble. If anything, the curse that had afflicted the ground was more like poison than anything else –- or so Harry had heard.   
  
“Ready to go?” Reid asked. If his name was really Reid.   
  
“Yes. Thanks for getting me in.”   
  
“No problem. It won’t be open to public for another two months, we want to put additional safety measures in place… can’t be too careful.”   
  
“Right,” Harry agreed automatically, although privately he thought it was far too late to be careful.   
  
He dropped the flower he’d brought with him – a single white rose -- on the marble. The two shades of white blended together, with only the thorny dark green stem standing out.   
  
 _Should have brought red_ , Harry thought absently.  _Hermione used to like red._


	2. The Centre

He knew he was losing track of time – he wasn’t certain how long it’s been since he woke up alone in the St. Mungo’s ward for the incurably ill, setting chaos to the automated life support spells. Looking at the rare blossoms on the otherwise barren trees, and the sparse shoots of grass poking out from the charred ground under his feet, he guessed about ten months. It was August when he came to. _It must be May now._

The Ministry, now composed of people Harry barely knew, or didn’t know at all -- fussed over, startling at his every sneeze and cough. They – the team of construction wizards, contracted and paid by the Ministry – built him a house, selecting the healthiest piece of ground available (still cursed-poisoned, but not nearly as bad as most other places), setting unplottability charms and all that. Deciding that Harry was still fragile and ready to fall apart, they decided not to burden him with any questions. They even set the place up for him -- a bed and a nightstand for the bedroom, a couch, a table with four chairs for the living room, another table with four more chairs for the kitchen. For the life of him, Harry couldn’t understand why they decided he needed that many tables and chairs – though he didn’t complain. He didn’t care one way or another. 

He was made comfortable. He was offered a seat in the Wizengamot, which he had declined, figuring that the way he was spaced out half the time, he’d be as good as useless. He was left alone after that, but whenever he made an appearance in public, they still fawned over him and fussed over him. That puzzled him. True, he used to be the Head of the Order at one point, but those days were long gone. 

Eventually, come Christmas, it dawned on him – he was the _last_ one. The last one still alive of the Dumbledore’s Regiment (that’s what they called the former Order of the Phoenix these days). 

He tried to wrap his mind around it, understand what it meant -- to be the last one. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. There was almost no pain. No grief as such. If anything, Harry simply felt as if he were picked up and transplanted into a different world – along with a handful of people he used to know: Luna Lovegood, Pomona Sprout, Amos Diggory, Stan Shunpike, Lee Jordan… 

He spoke to Jordan a few times, but the conversations were awkward and strained. They let go of each other easily, without ever reconnecting. 

Lovegood came to visit him once, drank all of his Firewhiskey, shagged him silently and left the following morning before he woke. 

Harry didn’t call after her, figuring she’d show up again when she felt like it. She didn’t. 

He half-regretted that they hadn’t talked, but was almost relieved, too. There was really not much left to say, other than that everything was over, and life around them moved on. 

It was amazing how, with so many people gone, the world continued to function. New people were stepping in, taking over the work left behind. The wizarding world turned out much bigger than Harry had imagined. 

Though these days it seemed a great deal emptier. 

*

The Centre for Redistribution was a long one-storey building in the middle of a wasteland that, with the wilted grass and ever-dry ground, seemed like it didn’t know the meaning of spring. Then again, much of the wizarding world was like that. Harry had asked, just once, how long it’d be until the Wizarding World would be in crisis, with most of the land being unfertile. He was assured that there would be no crisis, there were ways of working around it all. Harry almost believed it, although he still had a vague suspicion that they were all just living their last days, using up of what was left of the earth. 

Harry walked the deserted hallways, accompanied by John Dawlish, who was unbelievably chatty, answering every question in a way so detailed it was enough to fill a book. 

Harry nodded absently to another one of Dawlish’s tirades, and wondered if he should just turn back and go home. Because, really, it made no sense for him to be here. Seeing a traitor – even the one who used to be a part of the Order once upon a time – wasn’t going to change anything in Harry’s world. Yet, the moment he realized that Snape was still alive, Harry was drawn to him. Not to ask “why”, not to change anything. Just to see the only man who’d been Harry’s greatest error and became his undoing. 

“I don’t understand why he was allowed to remain alive,” Harry muttered, remembering the file with Snape’s crimes.

They were three, really: defection to the enemy in the middle of the war, manufacturing a pathogen that left all the Muggle-born wizards and witches crippled, and finally, performing a vivisection on a Muggle-born member of the Order. Harry, of course, knew all of that already – Snape’s capture and the debriefing regarding the exact circumstances of Hermione’s death was one of the last things Harry remembered before charging with the rest of the Order after Voldemort and his ilk. 

“Nobody was executed,” Dawlish said with obvious approval. “A waste of human material… well, formerly human, if you want to be technical. We would rather see them put to good use. Make amends, as much as they’re able to.” 

“So you keep them and trade them as commodities.” Harry had a vague inkling that Hermione would have disapproved of that, had she still been around. 

“In a manner of speaking. Few are sold, most are contracted out for brief periods of time and return to the Centre.” 

“Do people actually – er, contract them out them?” 

Harry remembered vaguely the story of Jordan signing a contract for Draco Malfoy. He also remembered that didn’t end well. 

“You’d be surprised,” Dawlish said. “Lovegood – you know her, of course! – she contracts out Dolohov once a month, for several days each time. I suppose she can’t afford to do so more frequently, and I believe she regrets it.” 

Harry winced. He wondered what on earth Luna would be doing with Dolohov, or to Dolohov, more to the point. Somehow it didn’t fit with what he used to know of her. Then again, what the fuck did he know of Lovegood anymore? 

“Dolohov was the one who’d set the explosion that destroyed the Quibbler office,” Harry remembered. “Killed her father.”

“Why, yes.” 

Dawlish looked almost predatory, and it seemed like he wouldn’t have minded speculating a bit more on Lovegood’s presumed practices, but they came to an abrupt stop in front of one of the cells. Separated by a lattice of metal bars was a small room with a bench, a toilet and a bowl of water. Harry peered inside and winced with distaste, seeing the emaciated body on the bench, stretched out long and thin. 

The ‘former human’ was asleep, completely naked and uncovered by anything. There was no pillow, no blanket, no sheets – just a metal bench and the stone walls of the cell. 

“Snape!” Dawlish bellowed on top of his lungs and rattled at the metal bars. “UP!” 

Snape stirred in his sleep and sat up abruptly, staring around in a disoriented sort of way. His sunken eyes stopped on Harry and something like vague surprise registered on his face. Then, Snape looked away. 

“Approach!” Dawlish snapped. 

Snape’s hesitation lasted no longer than a moment or two. He lifted himself off the bench and approached the doorway, making slow, painful steps. He stopped a few feet from the metal bars and, without being told, in an obviously learned gesture parted his legs slightly and brought his hands up to clasp them behind the back of his head. 

Dawlish flicked his wand and the metal bars moved upwards, providing Harry with an unobstructed view. 

Snape really looked … quite thin. Harry couldn’t quite tell whether this unnatural thinness was the result of the incarceration, or not. 

Some things, though, were clearly the outcome of the incarceration, or rather, “contracting out”. Snape’s thighs, chest and neck were covered in bruises, all faded to a pale yellow. 

“Turn around,” Dawlish ordered. 

Snape obeyed without a word. His upper back and shoulders, half-obscured by the long hair, were covered in numerous scars, thick and long, as if caused by whip marks. 

Harry glanced down, taking in the sight of him. There were a few more old scars on the lower back and backside, and more bruising too, faded to a faint yellow, but still bearing the form of human handprints. 

If the sight should have elicited some measure of sympathy, it failed to do so quite miserably. 

“What do you know,” Harry muttered under his breath, “he does get rented out.” 

Snape bony shoulders twitched slightly at the sound of his voice, but Snape made no sound. 

Harry stared at Snape some more, knowing he should likely walk away and forget the entire thing. He had no use for Snape, not really. He had no questions to ask, no accusations to make that hadn’t been made already three years ago. He doubted he could even work up the energy necessary to hurt Snape – he was just feeling too blank and too numb to pull that off. 

“Who usually rents him out?” Harry asked, mostly because he felt the need to say something. 

“Some contracts are made for personal reasons,” Dawlish explained, “at other times, he’s contracted out by the St. Mungo’s Department for Countercurse Research. They do a great deal of experimental work, very good work, by the way, and…” 

“Right,” Harry cut him off. “I get it.” 

Dawlish’s explanation did inspire a spark of long-forgotten rage – at the fact that even now, Snape somehow managed to worm his way into some sort of situation where he’d be doing something human. _Snape, helping with research after all he’s done_ , Harry thought with distaste. _What a joke._

“How much?” Harry shocked himself by asking. 

The price for contracting Snape out was seventy galleons per night, three nights for two hundred. Harry paid the two hundred, signed the contract, and agreed that he understood that causing irreparable harm or death to the former human will incur additional costs. 

Throughout the signing of the contract Snape’s back remained turned to him the entire time. Maybe it was just his imagination, but Harry could swear that Snape’s entire body tensed. He couldn’t help but feel a bit of grim satisfaction at that. 

“You needn’t worry about safety,” Dawlish advised Harry, “the new set of charms we have on them prevents them from causing harm to anyone. Even each other. Even themselves. We had to switch things around after the Jordan fiasco…” 

Harry nodded, desperately trying to recall the details of the aforementioned fiasco. 

“You don’t remember, do you?” Dawlish guessed. “Jordan signed a contract to get Draco Malfoy for a week. Mere four days later, somehow, Malfoy got his hands on Jordan’s wand – even though it shouldn’t have been possible – and fled.”

“Ah yes,” Harry nodded. He recalled that now, including the fact that Malfoy’s crimes included the murder of Lupin and Tonks. The only wonder was that Malfoy didn’t kill Jordan, too. “I understand that Jordan won’t be able to contract out anyone else ever again.” 

“Yes. Some say it’s too restrictive, especially seeing how this sort of thing isn’t possible anymore, not with the new set of spells, and yet…”

“Can’t be too careful,” Harry supplied, repeating Reid’s words. 

“No,” agreed Dawlish. “We can’t. Very well, Mister Potter. He’s due back Tuesday, unless you choose to extend the contract. You may use the Centre’s Floo to go home.” 

Tuesday. So today must be Saturday, Harry thought absently. 

The entire transaction left him with a vaguely surreal feeling. Likely because he still remembered the old world, the world where people could be thrown away, forgotten for decades, fed to the Dementors – but were never officially reduced to the status of objects. Then again, Harry thought, if anyone deserved this, Snape surely did.

“Come on,” Harry said. “Follow me.” 

Snape looked away once more and did as told.


	3. Fascination

Once home, Harry sat on the couch and leaned back, studying Snape, who continued to stand perfectly still, his hands still clasped at the back of his head. He seemed to be just waiting for whatever came his way.   
  
Trouble was, Harry didn’t know what that might be.  
  
There was no sympathy, no guilt, no desire to soften Snape’s lot in any way. There was no rage, either, and Harry found himself almost regretting it -- if only he could just get past this state of benumbed fascination, lash out, push, then…. Then what? He didn’t even know that.   
  
Snape was the first to breach the silence.   
  
“We don’t get news there. They didn’t tell me you survived. I had no idea,” he said, giving Harry a quick glance. His tone was mild, but the gaze of the dark sunken eyes was shockingly intense.   
  
“The disappointment must be overwhelming,” Harry said dryly.  
  
“It isn’t. Will you tell me what happened?”   
  
“What do you care?” Harry snapped.   
  
“I don’t know,” Snape admitted. “I’d like to hear it, just the same.”   
  
“The spell I used on Voldemort was custom-designed. Deadly for the caster as well as the target. I should have died. I’m not sure why I didn’t –I spent three years in a coma, while everyone else kept on fighting, chasing down and finishing off the rest of Voldemort’s supporters. I suppose I’m the last one left.”   
  
“How odd,” Snape whispered. “To be the only one left standing precisely because your survival wasn’t in the plans.”   
  
Harry winced. Snape’s voice, even and quiet, had the familiar note of steel in it. It reminded him of the way they used to talk some four years ago, discussing the Order’s plans and missions, Snape always by his side, never wavering and never mincing words. A different lifetime, Harry thought morosely and for a quick insane moment longed for those days. The insanity didn’t last long – it’s not like Harry could forget what Snape was, or rather, what he  _turned out to be._  
  
“No odder than to betray everyone hoping to gain something and lose everything in the end,” Harry pointed out. “I’d ask how your new life’s working out for you, Snape, but I can see it’s as grand as could be expected.”   
  
Snape had nothing to say to that. With a measure of satisfaction Harry noticed a faint touch of colour reach Snape’s high cheekbones, even more defined now due to his painful thinness. It was almost hypnotic – watching Snape, hearing him talk, seeing him try to act human, try to wade through this mockery of life, step after painful step... and knowing that he had nowhere to escape from all this, and nowhere to hide.   
  
“Get rented out often?” Harry asked lazily.   
  
Snape shook his head mutely.   
  
“How often?” Harry pressed.   
  
“The contracts for … personal use are rare,” There was only a momentary hesitation in Snape’s voice. “Other times, I get contracted out to the…”   
  
“Yes, I know. St. Mungo’s Department for Countercurse Research,” Harry cut him off. He couldn’t credit how much rage welled up the moment he remembered that Snape was still doing something useful at times. That, some days, he still had the opportunity to be human. “How many of those have you had so far?”  
  
“One hundred and twenty-something,” Snape said. “Twenty-eight, I think.”   
  
“Quite a few,” Harry observed. “How do you feel about that?”   
  
Snape gave a small shrug. “Doesn’t matter, I suppose, at the end of the day. A contract is a contract.”   
  
Harry smiled bitterly, angrily.   
  
He supposed it was no great surprise that being forced to help remedy at least some of the harm he’d caused would be repugnant to Snape. Probably just as repugnant as any other kind of “contract”.  
  
“Going to St. Mungo, or sucking someone’s cock, it really is all the same to you, isn’t it?” Harry checked.  
  
Snape gave no answer to that.  
  
“You know what that tells me, Snape?” Harry spat. “That it’s been too long since someone gave you a sound thrashing. Maybe someone should, so that next time you go to St. Mungo, you’ll be grateful.”   
  
Snape lifted his head abruptly and stared at Harry again with the same intensity as before. For a moment, it looked like Snape was going to say something, but then thought better of it.   
  
“Go shower,” Harry told him, pointing at the bathroom door. “And make it quick. In and out, you have five minutes.”   
  
Snape acknowledged Harry’s words with a silent nod and walked toward the bathroom door.   
  
All in all, Snape didn’t dawdle. Just out of idle curiosity, Harry did time him – it took Snape three and a half minutes to emerge from the bathroom and re-enter the living room, his hair wet, his skin still damp, and a towel wrapped around his waist.   
  
“Drop the towel,” Harry said.   
  
Snape did as told, allowing the towel to fall to the floor.   
  
“Bend over the chair.”   
  
Snape was still not saying anything. Silently, he took hold of one of the chairs and pulled it away from the table, moving it to the centre of the room. He positioned himself to bend over the high back of the chair, his palms resting against the seat. The position caused him to stand on his tiptoes, stretching his body painfully taut.   
  
Somehow, Harry was still shocked that Snape was obeying him. Whatever the Centre did to him was clearly sufficient to instill compliance.  _Too bad it wasn’t enough to teach him to value the rare opportunity to be useful…_  
  
Harry pulled the belt out of the loops and folded in in his hands. Snape tensed even more as he heard the clank of the belt buckle.   
  
Harry struck out angrily, quickly, first blow falling on Snape’s already bruised thighs. Snape flinched and let out a loud breath through his teeth, but otherwise, made no sound.   
  
Harry saw no need to hold back. He struck out again and again, watching with a distant fascination new welts form on Snape backside, lower back, thighs, back of his legs. Snape flinched at every lash, but somehow managed to keep his position and remain silent, even as the small tremors ran down his legs, and his fingers scraped and clawed at the seat of the chair.   
  
Harry delivered a final lash to the raw and deep-red mess of welts, abrasions and blisters that Snape’s backside had become. Snape did cry out then – a single, hoarse yelp. His legs buckled and he clutched at the back of the chair to steady himself.   
  
Harry walked up to him quickly, gathered a fistful of his hair and yanked at it, getting him to stand up straight once more. His head forced back, Snape kept his eyes tightly shut. His lower lip was swollen – it looked like he’d chewed it raw in his struggle to stay quiet. His body was trembling, and it looked like he was ready to fall down any moment, dragging Harry along with him.  
  
Seeing no reason to wait for that, Harry shoved him down abruptly, forcing him into a kneeling position. Snape’s bony knees made a satisfying crack against the floor.   
  
Slowly, Harry traced Snape’s swollen lip with his index finger.   
  
“Are you any good at sucking cock, Snape?” Harry asked. “No, you don’t need to answer. Just open your mouth, that will do.”   
  
Giving Snape’s hair another rough yank, Harry guided him to kneel beside the couch.   
  
Whoever had said that power corrupts knew what they were talking about, Harry thought bitterly. It was intoxicating, knowing he could push Snape as much as he wanted to, and watching him obey. No more restrictions, no more boundaries, no rules -- and no more need to be  _humane_  in any way, none of that rot.  _Humane_ ended ages ago, and Snape was the one to end it, as far as Harry was concerned.   
  
For a long minute Harry smiled as he stared at Snape, who was frozen in an awkward position, his lips slightly parted.   
  
Harry unzipped his trousers to pull out his cock.   
  
“Go on, Snape. Get to it.”   
  
Snape inched forward and a moment later, the black-haired head rested between Harry’s legs.   
  
It took Harry by surprise. Not that Snape was good at it, but that he was  _gentle_  about it. He licked the underside of Harry’s cock, sucked at the head, stroking the slit with the tongue. All in all Snape gave the impression of pleasuring a lover, rather than trying to pacify someone.   
  
Harry’s mind went blissfully blank. He really wasn’t thinking about anything anymore, just that it felt good to have someone’s lips around his erect cock, to feel the pressing of another’s body against his legs.   
  
Absently, Harry ran a hand through Snape’s damp hair, sorting through it, noticing the few grey strands. His fingertips brushed against Snape’s earlobe.   
  
Snape stilled for a moment, then leaned into his touch, rubbing his cheek against Harry’s palm. That was enough to bring Harry back to his senses.   
  
Roughly, he pushed Snape off, disgusted with himself for touching Snape – _like that._  
  
Without saying a word, he stood up and reached for Snape’s shoulders, turning him around and pushing him down to stand on all fours, with his welted buttocks lifted in the air. He kicked Snape’s legs apart.  
  
“Still like  _this_ better than the  _other_ assignments?” Harry asked.   
  
Snape didn’t make a sound.   
  
When Harry pushed into him, without lubrication, without any preliminaries, Snape let out a single pained grunt. The dry-fucking was painful not just for Snape, Harry realized quickly, but that didn’t matter anymore. He thrust a few more times, feeling Snape’s channel clench in protest at the dry penetration. He came quickly, abruptly, feeling relieved more than anything else.  
  
When Harry withdrew, Snape made an attempt to sit up, but gave that up quickly in favor of simply lying on the floor face down.   
  
Harry looked away. Slowly, he zipped his trousers back up, picked up his belt. The fascination and the intoxication were gone, giving way to nausea and disgust and something like buyer’s remorse. He didn’t want to look at Snape anymore, but he did anyway.   
  
Snape remained on the floor just as he was, not moving, as if he were an inanimate object. The small trickle of come, running down his thigh, had a reddish tint to it.   
  
Harry stepped over him silently and went to bed. 


	4. The Doorstep

That night, tossing and turning under the blankets, Harry dreamed of the war for the first time sine his awakening from the coma. Not the war, specifically, but their last day in the Order’s Headquarters in Northern Scotland, and the last day they had Snape with them.   
  
 _“You’re making a mistake,” Moody said, taking Harry aside. “I mean Snape,” he elaborated, met with Harry’s quizzical look.  
  
“Explain,” Harry said. That was one thing he always appreciated about Alastor – the man never held back.   
  
“Snape will betray us, if you send him back to Voldemort,” Moody said bluntly.   
  
“What makes you say that?”  
  
“He’s unstable.”  
  
“In what way?” Harry pressed.   
  
“He fancies you. Did you know that?”   
  
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard.”   
  
Moody’s mangled lips twisted into what may have been a smirk.   
  
“I notice things.” Moody’s mutilated hand rose to point to his own artificial eye. “This – sees things. Things that the others miss. His blood pressure and heartbeat accelerate whenever he’s near you.”   
  
“Maybe that’s because he still can’t stand me.”   
  
“No,” Moody protested, “Not like that. Differently.” He paused for a moment, then continued, “Potter, he wants you. With the desperation of a man who is losing a war and losing everything. You can’t give him anything – not yourself, not victory. Snape always looks out for himself. Mark my word: if you can’t give him anything, if you cast him out, he will turn to someone who is his second choice.”   
  
“I don’t think so,” Harry said mildly, doing his best to soothe the man’s paranoia once more. “Dumbledore trusted him…”   
  
“At that time, he had cause to trust him. Since then things have changed, if you hadn’t noticed.”  
  
“We’re still going to win,” Harry insisted. He added, mildly, “Alastor, we don’t have a choice. Voldemort is planning something foul, something huge. We haven’t got a hope of even finding out what that is – without Snape. Snape is our only hope of containing whatever it is that Voldemort has decided to do.”   
  
“You’re wrong to place your hope in him. Because whatever Voldemort is holding in his hands, Snape is going to unleash.”  
  
Harry shook his head. He could be stubborn, too, much to the displeasure of Alastor, who’d always thought Harry was too young to lead the order. But Alastor was outvoted and fell in line, albeit with some reluctance.   
  
“I haven’t been wrong yet,” Harry pointed out.   
  
“Mark my word. Snape is going to be the your first mistake – and your last. You won’t get a chance to make another.” _  
  
*  
  
When Harry woke, it was early morning. He pulled the blanket over his head, trying to escape the irritation of the spring sunlight that seemed to find its way through the smallest gaps between the window curtains and paint a bright-fiery line on his pillow.   
  
 _Why does it need to be so bloody bright,_ Harry thought morosely.  _Why can’t it always be dark, or at least, suitably grey…_    
  
The memory of the dream rolled back into the background, leaving a bitter aftertaste of bile in Harry’s mouth. He thought of the last night and cringed, recalling Snape’s attempt at pleasuring him... Maybe Alastor had been right. Maybe Snape cracked when Harry had sent him back to Voldemort. Or maybe … maybe it was far less complex than that. Maybe Snape had never been truly loyal to anyone and simply went with whatever he wanted most at the moment. If so, this was the perfect life for him – becoming a toy for people’s immediate wants and whims.   
  
When Harry got dressed and made it back to the living room, Snape was asleep on the floor, in the same spot where Harry had left him. He’d rolled onto his side in his sleep, and half-curled into himself. His hands were clutching at his chest, as if he were afraid that his body was going to fall apart, and he was holding it together.   
  
Harry touched his side with the toe of his boot.   
  
“Could you be more pathetic, if you tried? Get up.”   
  
Snape stirred and lifted himself on the elbow. There seemed to be the same air of disorientation in his movements – as if he really didn’t know where he was. Eventually, he appeared to have collected himself, at least in sufficient measure to ask,   
  
“May I use the shower?”   
  
“Don’t bother,” Harry shot back. “You can clean yourself up at the Centre. Which is where I’m taking you this instant.”   
  
Snape did look at him then, briefly, intensely.   
  
“I thought you were keeping me for two more days,” he said.   
  
Harry shrugged. “There’s no point. There’s no ‘you’ to keep, Snape. There’s only the two holes and I’ve fucked them both already.”   
  
Snape’s gaze never left Harry’s face.  
  
“Were you expecting to find something more?” he shocked Harry by asking.   
  
“Not really,” Harry said tiredly, feeling like the entire thing was getting out of hand. He wanted to be rid of Snape more than ever.   
  
For a brief while they were both silent. Snape slowly rose to his feet, looked around, taking stock of his surroundings and still seeming mildly disoriented.   
  
“Potter,” Snape spoke again. “Have you got a cigarette?”   
  
“What?” Harry stared at him.   
  
“A cigarette.”  
  
“What if I do?”  
  
“Let me have one.”   
  
Harry hesitated. He didn’t really want to delay taking Snape back to the Centre – having him over was just too bloody nauseating.   
  
“Potter,” Snape interrupted his thoughts, with something like desperation in his voice, “will it kill you? I’m not asking you to save me, or keep me, or talk to me, or do anything of the sort. I’m asking for a single cigarette. Surely in the infinite wealth of resources at your disposal you can afford that?”   
  
Harry gritted his teeth and walked to his bookshelf. The pack of John Players was found a minute later and Harry tossed it to Snape along with a lighter.   
  
“Make it quick.”   
  
“I’ll open the door and smoke on the porch. You haven’t got neighbours, I imagine?”   
  
“No neighbours,” Harry whispered, as Snape walked into the darkened hallways. “Just lots of empty space here, and the unplottability charms all around it.”   
  
When Snape opened the door, the daylight, blinding and fierce, poured into the house. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, staring at the slender darkened silhouette in the doorway and almost wishing he never let Snape have that cigarette.   
  
Snape sat down on the porch, flinching as his battered backside came in contact with the damp wood, but didn’t stand up. He stretched out his bony legs and lit the cigarette he’d pulled out of the pack.   
  
Harry came up to the doorway and stared at him, as Snape exhaled a puff of smoke through the swollen lips.   
  
“How much empty space?” Snape asked suddenly.   
  
“A lot. Miles of it,” Harry said.   
  
Snape turned to sit sideways in the doorway, leaned his back against the doorpost and shut his eyes.   
  
“How bad is the earth?” he asked.   
  
“I thought you didn’t get news there?” Harry shot back.   
  
“I don’t. But it takes no expert to see that something is very wrong.” Snape slid down to the lowest step of the porch and picked up a handful of dirt, cradling it in his hand like a fledgling bird. “How long has it been this way?”   
  
“Three years. We – they – noticed something was wrong about four months after the war was over. Maybe five.”   
  
“How is it in the Muggle world?” Snape asked.   
  
“The Muggle world is fine. Only the wizarding world is… like this.” Harry stared at Snape intently. “Is it Voldemort’s work?”   
  
“It’s possible, I suppose. I don’t remember. ” Snape thought of it for a minute, then added, “If I were a betting man, I’d wager on this being a side-effect of some sort. A natural consequences of the many things we did to each other.” However, “Snape exhaled another puff of smoke, “I’m afraid I’ve got nothing left to wager against anything.” He opened his palm and the small handful of dirt slipped through his fingers.  
  
“Do you know how to fix it?” Harry asked.   
  
Snape shook his head and butted out the cigarette without finishing it. He rose to his feet and handed the lighter and the pack of cigarettes back to Harry.  
  
“I don’t envy you, Potter,” he said softly and his lips twisted into a bitter smile. “I’m not likely to see the outcome of this sorry mess. You, on the other hand, will have to live with this, and  _in_  this, for a very long time.”  
  
Harry reacted instantly, backhanding Snape on the mouth, hard. Snape flinched ever so slightly, then touched the bloodied lower lip with his tongue.  
  
“You aren’t anyone to talk,” Harry told him, barely able to credit how much rage he felt around Snape after many months of benumbed indifference. “You’ve caused this. Directly, or indirectly, I don’t care. And we don’t need you to fix it. We’ll be fine, we’ll make do. And yes, you will be around to see it and know how utterly useless you are.”   
  
For the first time since Harry brought him here, Snape threw his head back and held it high.   
  
“Then take me back, Potter,” he said. There was something strange in his voice – bitterness, resignation, Harry couldn’t tell what. “Take me back to the Centre and be done with me.”   
  
Snape turned around and headed to the Floo. Harry followed him. 


	5. The Blood Alley

It didn’t take long for Harry to get rid of Snape, returning him to the Centre, assuring Dawlish he didn’t want a refund, and everything was fine.   
  
He couldn’t help but watch Snape disappear back into the shadows of his cell, never giving Harry another look.   
  
Harry left immediately after that, wanting nothing better than to return to the former state of numbness, not feeling anything, not keeping track of time, not needing anything and not being needed. It didn’t quite happen.   
  
He spent hours just washing his hands, trying to erase the memory of touching Snape, and still feeling like he had something of Snape left on them.   
  
He spent a full day, sitting on the porch where Snape had sat. He finished the pack of John Players, while staring at the ground under his feet and knowing that his final words to Snape were meaningless. There was no “we” for Harry to be a part of. Somebody else was working on the problem of the cursed earth, somebody else was keeping the peace and protecting the people. For everything, there was someone else.   
  
He was outdated, a relic at the age of twenty-five. The spells he designed and learned during the war were no longer needed. In a way, he was just as useless as Snape.   
  
Harry shook his head, Evanescoed the empty cigarette pack and rose to his feet. He imagined he needed to go back to the world, get out of the house where he had all but marooned himself to slowly go insane.   
  
He began to walk toward the anti-Apparition boundary, a few miles away from the house. He’d walked this distance before a few times (other times, he just used the Floo), and yet, this time, it felt different. He was aware of how  _unalive_ the ground felt under his feet. It had a feeling of a walking across the graveyard, and Snape’s final parting words continued to taunt him.   
  
Perhaps, it was no wonder that thinking of Snape became an obsession he couldn’t be rid of, no matter how hard he tried.   
  
Half an hour later, he Apparated to Diagon Alley. For a few minutes he stood motionless, taking in the bright new buildings, new shops, new bright displays in the windows.   
  
There was plenty of red everywhere: signs, banners, lights. Many houses were red-brick, others were painted different shades of it, from pale pink to a deep garnet. Belatedly, Harry remembered that Diagon Alley was called “the Blood Alley” these days – either because so many people died, trying to defend it, or because of the new colours, he didn’t know.   
  
“Everything on sale, thirty-five percent off every new arrival! Hurry and don’t miss this great opportunity! All proceeds of the day will be donated to St. Mungo’s Phage Care Ward!” A shrill female voice cried out behind Harry’s back. Harry turned around, realizing belatedly that he was standing near the doorway to the Bloody Book Bin – the Alley’s new book shop. The voice belonged to an animated doll, human-sized. The doll’s face looked glossy and shiny. Large blue eyes stared expressionlessly and rubbery lips were stretched unnaturally into a perfectly creepy smile.   
  
Harry winced and entered the shop.   
  
It was mayhem inside. People were grabbing the books off the shelves, arguing and elbowing each other. Harry looked around, feeling lost before he got started.   
  
He spotted a lonely figure in the corner of the room. Thin, tall and hooded, it seemed familiar, somehow, and Harry headed in that direction.   
  
The person turned around and Harry gasped before he could manage to moderate his reaction. He barely recognized the young man in front of him: Terry Boot’s face was mutilated, as if someone, or something, had fed on him for a while before letting him go.   
  
Harry cursed himself for his reaction: he still wasn’t used to the way the Phage had affected all Muggle-borns. Another testament to Snape’s work, Harry thought morosely. He still couldn’t credit how lucky they all had been that the Phage had exhausted itself before actually killing anyone.   
  
Terry grinned at him.   
  
“I know, I know, I look like a zombie. Been a while, Harry.” Terry extended his hand to Harry, and Harry shook it firmly. “How are you doing?”   
  
Harry opened his mouth and shut it. He didn’t know what to say. He remembered the momentary insanity of actually speaking with Snape, and letting him have a cigarette, and couldn’t quite look Terry in the eye.   
  
“I’m okay, I guess.”   
  
“All right.” Terry’s hand was withdrawn. “Look, if you ever want to – you know, reconnect, come find me. I live a block down, above the new quill shop. Me and Jordan share a flat.”   
  
“Sure,” Harry said, trying to imagine what it would be like to visit someone. He failed miserably. “I’ll do that.”   
  
Terry stared at him intently.   
  
“You all right? You don’t look so well. Do you want to come to our place now?”  
  
“Maybe another time. Excuse me.” Harry managed to get away somehow, feeling Terry’s gaze on his back the entire time.   
  
In his attempts to make some distance between himself and Terry, Harry found himself by a small table, fully dedicated to a single book. Harry glanced at it – the book seemed like a children’s type of story. The title certainly suggested something of the sort: “The Girl Who Couldn’t Run Away.” Yet the cover looked like it might have been a horror novel. Harry did a double take, when he noticed the author’s name; Luna Lovegood.   
  
“This one isn’t on sale, I’m afraid,” the shop owner, a young red-head vaguely reminiscent of Percy, said apologetically.  
  
“Not a new arrival?” Harry asked.   
  
“Oh, it’s new enough,” the redhead said, sounding vexed. “It’s just that Miss Lovegood refused to reduce the price or donate any of the proceeds to St. Mungo. Said she needs all the money she can get.”   
  
“Yeah, renting Dolohov must cost her a fortune,” Harry muttered under his breath, suddenly sickened by everything: the memory of Snape, naked and helpless in his house, and the thought of Luna doing some foul things to someone who should have died but didn’t.   
  
“I beg your pardon, I didn’t catch that,” the redhead said.   
  
“It’s nothing. How much for the book?”   
  
“Forty-five galleons.”   
  
“You ought to be joking.”   
  
“Alas. Lovegood calculated the price personally to maximize the profits.”   
  
Harry smiled. Who would have thought that dreamy loony Lovegood would be capable of being this practical. Then again, if his experience with Snape was any indication, he didn’t know people, not really.   
  
“I’ll take the book. Can you let Lovegood know that I’d like to visit her one day?” Harry asked. Somehow, he could stand the thought of seeing Luna again.  
  
“She doesn’t accept visitors. She values her seclusion.”   
  
“I’m sure. Let her know just the same. Maybe she’ll make an exception for me.”   
  
“All right.”   
  
Harry paid for the book and left the shop promptly. On his way out, he gave the glossy doll a quick glance, suddenly wanting to punch it. He didn’t, of course, making a scene wasn’t really in his plans.   
  
Before returning home, he picked up a bottle of Firewhiskey at what used to be the Leaky Cauldron, and was now called the Red Door pub.   
  
***   
  
The book turned out to be a real horror novel, and it wasn’t half bad, as Harry discovered, lying in his bed under a pile of blankets.   
  
The “girl” turned out to be a sixty-year old woman, who moved from place to place every few years, because she was pursued by monsters. Each time she settled in a new town or village and started a new life, the monsters would invariably find her and she fled all over again. Harry scratched his head. He had a rather unpleasant feeling that the book wouldn’t end well, so he shut it and shoved it under his bed.   
  
For a while he continued stare into the ceiling. As he began to drift off, the disjointed images of the day’s events continued to swim before his eyes. The lonely figure of Terry Boot, his disfigured, Phage-ravaged face that suddenly turned smooth and glossy, with the lips acquiring a rubbery look. Harry opened his eyes again and let out a deep sigh.   
  
He reached for the book, gritted his teeth and finished it, even though he didn’t really need to. He guessed the ending before he got to it.   
  
“I knew that,” Harry said, shoving the book back under the bed. “The monsters, the whole army of them, lived inside her, that’s why she couldn’t get away.” He smirked, wondering if Lovegood was really trying to get away from her monsters, or if she simply was explaining why she couldn’t.   
  
Maybe that was her way of making peace with her monsters. Making enough money to contract out the man who killed her father – just once a month, and setting them loose on him.   
  
It hurt to think of Lovegood doing something like that for some reason. Doing that just once left Harry a mess, feeling sick to the stomach and nauseated. He couldn’t imagine what many months of this would do to someone.   
  
He fell asleep, dreaming of the red-brick houses, red banners and window displays and an animated doll, wearing a red dress. The doll’s face was glossy and pretty and dead, but the sunken black eyes were alive, and seemed to be living a life of their own. 


	6. Past Tense Interrogative

In his dreams, Harry was back in the makeshift courtroom, where Snape’s trial had taken place.   
  
 _The new Headquarters were far from grand, but in this spacious room there was enough place for everyone, the members of the Order and the exiled members of the Wizengamot alike. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on Snape, who had been recaptured and brought back. Harry heard that Snape didn’t resist capture, simply gave the Aurors a puzzled look and came with them. His wand was reported lost._  
  
 _Snape listened to the witnesses’ testimony attentively, but in a puzzled sort of way, as if he wasn’t fully understanding what was happening._  
  
 _Harry glanced at Snape with distaste. He remembered Alastor’s warning and bit his lip. Alastor had been right about Snape after all, he just didn’t live long enough to see it._  
  
 _“Snape,” Harry spoke quietly._  
  
 _Snape’s head whipped around and he stared at Harry._  
  
 _“Yes?” Snape whispered back, and a small tremor crossed his face._  
  
 _“I’ve heard enough. I want to ask you some questions directly. I want you to answer them truthfully. Will you take Veritaserum?”_  
  
 _“Of course.”_  
  
 _The prescribed three drops were deposited on Snape’s tongue and Harry watched him intently, giving it a few minutes before asking the questions._  
  
 _“Why did you defect to serve Voldemort?” Harry asked._  
  
 _“I don’t remember,” Snape replied._  
  
 _“I’m sorry?” Harry couldn’t help but wonder whether Veritaserum was actually working on Snape._  
  
 _“I have no memory of defecting to Voldemort,” Snape said._  
  
 _“Do you deny it?”_  
  
 _“All evidence seems to point to my defection, but I have no information to offer.”_  
  
 _Harry frowned, and stammered, asking the next question. “Are you – I mean, would you… Oh bloody hell, could you even do such a thing? I mean, Snape, really?”_  
  
 _Snape intercepted his gaze._  
  
 _“If your question is whether I’m capable of treason, then the answer is yes, obviously. I did betray Voldemort once, after all.”_  
  
 _“I see. What is the last thing you remember?”_  
  
 _“Leaving the headquarters of the Order. Alone, the morning after I received my assignment from you. It was to accept Voldemort’s offer of forgiveness he’d extended t me, to infiltrate his ranks, to find out what his plans were and attempt to thwart them.”_  
  
 _“Did you do any of that?” Harry asked._  
  
 _“Potter, I already told you, I don’t remember what I did since then.”_  
  
 _“Right. Did you kill Hermione Granger by performing vivisection on her?”_  
  
 _“The eyewitness testimony seems to point that way,” Snape whispered, a deep scowl crossing his forehead. “It’d be highly unlikely that they were ALL mistaken.”_  
  
 _Harry nodded briefly. The other Death Eaters, a handful of them, who were captured along with Snape were all too eager to point fingers at each other and give up names. They were administered Veritaserum, of course._  
  
 _“Did you create the Phage?” Harry asked._  
  
 _“I don’t remember.”_  
  
 _“Is there any way to know for sure?” Harry demanded, still not wanting to believe any of this. Because this was Snape, not exactly a nice person, not exactly a good one, either, but someone who’d been loyal for a long time. “About Hermione. About the Phage?”_  
  
 _“Yes,” Snape answered, but didn’t volunteer any additional information._  
  
 _“How?”_  
  
 _“If you show me the analysis of the composition of the Phage and the records of vivisection I will be able to identify my work, even if I don’t remember performing it. Provided that it is my work, of course.”_  
  
 _“You’ve got some nerve, murderer!” someone cried out from the back of the room._  
  
 _“Let him see the records,” Harry said tiredly. “I want to know what he has to say.”_  
  
 _A long silence ensued. Snape studied the record for what seemed like an eternity. Nobody spoke, not even the person whose indignant remark sounded earlier._  
  
 _Eventually, Snape was done. The Veritaserum was readministered, and Snape spoke again._  
  
 _“Both of these are clearly my work.”_  
  
 _“Are you sure?” Harry whispered._  
  
 _“Quite. The composition of the pathogens in the sequence is based on the algorithms I’ve used in my research previously.”_  
  
 _“Could someone else have duplicated that?” Harry continued to push, desperate._  
  
 _“Absolutely not. It’s not something that one else could identify and reproduce.”_  
  
 _“The – the vivisection?” Harry’s voice shook, while Snape, under the influence of Veritaserum, remained almost perfectly calm._  
  
 _“My work, clearly.”_  
  
 _“How can you be sure?”_  
  
 _“Each practitioner has his own way, his own style, if you will, of making incisions, of pulling apart tissues and muscle, whenever preparing a euthanized animal’s body for potions ingredients…”_  
  
 _“Yes,” Harry cut him off. “Could you have been under Imperio?”_  
  
 _“No,” Snape said._  
  
 _“How do you know that?”_  
  
 _“Apart from the fact that I am capable of resisting Imperio? Whenever someone performs complex tasks under Imperio, with the passage of time, his actions lose the individuality of the performer, eventually acquiring the style of the one who casts the Imperio.”_  
  
 _“I see,” Harry whispered. He knew that, of course, but hearing Snape say that seemed to do something in terms of closing the question. “Then I suppose there’s nothing to discuss.” Harry gave Snape a long look. "You realize, the fact that you conveniently don’t remember any of this means nothing.”_  
  
 _“Of course.”_  
  
 _“All right then,” Harry said tiredly, not recognizing his own voice as he spoke. “From now on, you’ll be held in detention. Sentencing will take place as soon as the war is over, which shouldn’t be much longer. I will leave the details to the sentencing committee.”_  
  
 _Snape bowed his head. Harry gave him one last look before leaving the courtroom. The members of the Order followed him shortly._  
  
 _He paused in the doorway when he heard someone’s voice._  
  
 _“Mister Potter, do you have a sentencing recommendation?”_  
  
 _He was surprised by the question at first: didn’t he just say the sentencing would take place after the war was over? Then it dawned on him: it wasn’t exactly a secret that he wasn’t expected to return from the final mission. They wanted to know before he left._  
  
 _Harry froze. He knew he had a chance to speak to Snape’s destiny one more time, before going off to face his own. He didn’t know what to say._  
  
 _“I don’t have any recommendations,” Harry replied finally. “It doesn’t matter what you do with him.”_  
  
*  
  
When Harry woke up, it was still dark in the house. For the longest time, he sat on the bed, trying to banish the remnants of the dream-memory. It wasn’t quite working.   
  
He got dressed, walked into the sitting room and paced it for a while. Eventually he walked out onto the porch and sat down, staring at the dark sky. It wasn’t quite so pitch-black anymore, the first hint of scarlet touched the edge of the woods on the very horizon.   
  
He waited for the night to recede. When the sun was up, and the first of the daylight touched the unalive ground all around his house, Harry rose to his feet.   
  
He walked and walked, until the house became a small speck, barely distinguishable from the gnarly trees and the barren shrubs in the distance. When Harry reached the Apparition boundary, he already knew where he was going, even if he didn’t want to admit it.  
  
*  
  
If asked, Harry wouldn’t be able to explain why he came back to the Centre, or why he wanted to see Snape again. He still had nothing to say to him, no new questions to ask.   
  
And yet, he was drawn to see him, just one more time. Maybe to convince himself that Snape was still alive, slowly and torturously paying off a debt that would never be paid.  
  
Or maybe it was regret – that Harry never really understood the reasons for Snape’s betrayal.   
  
Either way, he just felt that they weren’t finished with each other. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would take for them to finally be done with each other – once and for all. 


End file.
